


Talk to Me: The Christmas Special

by destielpasta, mtothedestiel



Series: The Talk to Me Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Communication, Fallen Angels, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, Healthy Relationships, Love Letters, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is laid up in the bunker, a cast on his leg and a surly prophet to entertain while Dean and Sam are out on a job. Snow's falling, and the discussion of Christmas gifts becomes a source of anxiety. Hilarity, fluff, shopping trips and questionable hunting practices ensue, all wrapped up in the bow that is a very Merry Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm gettin' nothing for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> *rises from the grave shrieking*
> 
> Greetings from the Netherworld! We are back from the world of completed fics to bring you this new installment to the Talk to Me Project universe. Just a few reminders before we buckle in for this fluffy joyride:
> 
> \- Kevin is alive and well and still translating the damn tablets.  
> \- Dean and Cas still communicate via journal whilst separated.  
> \- Ambriel is the fucking best. 
> 
> If you have not read the original [Talk to Me Project](http://archiveofourown.org/works/874456) then we would certainly recommend getting on that right away. However, it is not essential to enjoy this bit of Christmas fun. 
> 
> We will be posting three days a week until complete. 
> 
> Please feel to connect with either of us on tumblr at [Destielpasta](http://destielpasta.tumblr.com/) and [Summersteve](http://summersteve.tumblr.com/) !

**December 21, 2014: The Headquarters of the Men of Letters**

_Hello Dean,_

_It snowed last night, the wet kind. Kevin helped me get to the door so that we could watch it fall. He even showed me how to make a snowball and said that we would have an “epic snowball fight” when my leg gets better. It was good to see him up and about, he’s been moping around since Ambriel’s departure a few days ago._

_And before you bring it up, yes, Ambriel did offer to heal my leg. I turned her down. She’s been finding it increasingly difficult to fly as of late and I will not take any more of her grace if it’s proving to be expendable._

_Kevin says he would like a white Christmas. ~~I think I would like you here for Christmas.~~ I think I would like that too. Stay safe._

_-Castiel_

 

“You know there’s this thing called a phone. You can even text on it.” Kevin said, legs up on the coffee table, a thick book on ancient texts resting against his legs.

Cas eyed the beat up journal on the table; the corners soft and the pages yellowing. His pen rested more than halfway through, holding his place.

“We’ve grown adjusted to this way,” Cas affirmed. Kevin rolled his eyes, muttering something that sounded like ‘old saps’ under his breath. Cas adjusted himself, the heavy green cast on his leg thunking loudly on the floor.

 _You should get blue to match your eyes, Cas,_ Dean had said at the hospital, his usual joking self in the emergency room where Cas had his leg set. Cas pretended he couldn’t see the worry lines in his friend’s forehead or the tension in his jaw. _I’ll get green to match yours,_ Cas had replied, smug when a light flush moved up Dean’s neck.

“What’re you going to get Dean for Christmas?” Kevin asked, yanking Castiel out of his daydream.

Nerves settled in Cas’s stomach. He hadn’t forgotten about the tradition of gift-giving (even though the Christ child had actually been born in early summer, not winter and all of this hoop-la was really just a bastardized winter solstice celebration) but in all honestly, he had no idea what to get Dean, or if they were even exchanging gifts at all. He didn’t even know if Dean would be home for Christmas, let alone of he wanted to celebrate it.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Kevin continued, “He’s not exactly materialistic.”

Cas thought about the Impala, fixed and stitched back together time and time again. He thought about a stack of vinyl records carefully sorted and displayed in their bedroom, a story behind each 45 just waiting behind Dean’s lips. Then he remembered a photograph, frayed and worn, of a lovely young woman name Mary Winchester that never left Dean’s side, no matter where he went.

Cas smiled to himself. Dean was materialistic, but only for things that mattered; which would only make finding a gift all the harder.

“And what are you getting Ambriel? Surely a celestial entity older than time itself will be expecting something amazing?” Cas shot back at Kevin, enjoying the way the color left the young prophet’s face.

Looked like they were in it together.

 

* * *

 

Dean stared at the popcorn ceiling above his bed, flexing his toes underneath the scratchy sheets in a half-assed attempt to generate some warmth in his lower extremities.  The mattress beneath him was definitely not memory foam.  Across the room Dean could hear Sam rolling over, trying to get comfortable despite his feet practically hanging off the end of the bed.  A futile huff of breath told him his brother was just as awake as he was.

“You know what sucks?”  Dean asked, eyes still tracing the irritating asymmetry of the cheap ceiling tiles.

“Motel rooms?” Sam offered.

“Motel rooms,” Dean agreed.  Shitty décor, shampoo that left your scalp itchy, and no Cas to snuggle up to and keep your feet warm.  Not that Dean and Castiel snuggled.  Please.  They were bad-asses.   Bad-asses don’t snuggle.  Dean was just…tactile.  Yeah.  Tactile is a manly thing to be, right?

This was why motel rooms sucked.  Nothing to do but lay in the dark and needlessly self-analyze.

“Are we going back to the bunker for Christmas?”  Sam asked from the other double.  Dean sighed.

“I dunno.”

“Cas say anything?” 

Dean flopped over onto his belly, exhaling forcefully into the musty pillow.

“Dean?” 

“He wants us there,” he said at last, “He hasn’t said as much, but I can read between the lines.”  You don’t spend six months pen pal-ing/bed sharing with a guy without picking up on a few things. 

“So I guess we’ll be home for Christmas, then,” Sam offered. 

“Guess so.”  Silence fell in the darkened room, lit only by the red blinking of the broken bedside alarm clock.  Christmas in the bunker, Dean mused.  Could be pretty good actually.  The kitchen is up to snuff, they could try for a cheap turkey, or some cookies, maybe.  Lord knows the Men of Letters left them enough Bing Crosby records to last a lifetime.  They could drink Irish coffee and he could show Cas all those creepy stop motion Christmas specials.  Maybe Cas would get bored once they got through the Year without a Santa Claus and they could get a little handsy…   

“So are you getting Cas something?” Sam asked, ruining Dean’s Yuletide fantasy.  Shit.  Dean plopped his face back into his pillow, groaning.  What the hell do you get a fallen Angel of the Lord for Christmas?

 

_Heya Cas,_

_We’re getting snow here too, and it blows.  If my Baby gets rusty I’m going after Mother Nature with a sharpened stake.  We’re definitely parking her in the garage for the season when me’n Sam get back._

_Speaking of which, I think we’re gonna aim to be back in Lebanon by the 25th.  I figure since you’re laid up we’re a man down so we may as well lay low for a spell and rest up.  Maybe do a little something for Christmas, you know, if you’re into that.  Could be nice._

_We’re almost done here, but Sam thinks he smells a spirit problem two towns over, so we might take a peek at that before we head back west.  Shouldn’t be too strenuous, we’ll be back in plenty of time._

_Keep that leg up, and no driving._

_Dean_

_  
P.S.  Couldn’t sleep last night.  It’s not the same without you clinging to me like a baby koala. _


	2. Toys in Every Store

The shopping mall was crowded with last minute shoppers, the smell of buttered pretzels and cheap pizza thick in the air. Cas leaned on his crutches, watching intently as child after child made their way to the garishly decorated “Santa’s Village” in the center of the food court, their parents snapping pictures as they sat on the bearded old man’s lap. Some children ran up to the Santa Clause and jumped on his lap, immediately listing everything they wanted for Christmas. Some children needed nudging from their parents, or for Mom’s reassuring presence to be there while they quietly talked with Santa. One child simply shook the old man’s hand and chatted with him for a moment before posing professionally for her picture.

“Come on Cas! There’s a sale at the Gap!” Kevin called, already ten paces ahead of him. Cas tore his eyes away from the scene, the rush and noise of the mall clanging in his ears again.

He was getting used to the crutches, still ornery over how they chafed at his underarms. It was only supposed to be a routine salt and burn while they were on the road, nothing dangerous really. He had a perfect shot, even with Dean screaming at him to get out of the way, and then the spirit decided to be difficult and drop a chest of drawers on his right leg. A clean break, but a break nonetheless.

Cas followed Kevin’s mop of black hair as he bobbed and weaved his way through the crowds. The “Gap” turned out to be a clothing store with bright white lighting and blown-up pictures of apathetic models lining the walls. Sales associates bustled around with head-sets on, flashing fake smiles at customers while hissing complaints to their colleagues. Kevin stopped at a rack, beckoning Cas to him.

“Shirts are always a good present. I don’t think Dean’s much of a sweater guy,” Kevin offered.

Cas just hummed in response and eyed the red flannel shirts Kevin was indicating, running his fingers along the soft fabric. Too soft. Dean’s shirts always had a little roughness too them; inconsistencies that came from being left in the dryer too long.  

“Not deep enough for you, Romeo?” Kevin rolled his eyes.

Castiel frowned and steered Kevin towards a rack of graphic t-shirts on the women’s side of the store. “Go ahead. Pick one out for Ambriel.”

Kevin narrowed his eyes at the selection. “Touché.” They left the store empty-handed and with matching scowls.

Kevin took him to another store, one with figurines and small gifts, but nothing jumped out to Cas except for a small car ornament, but the salesperson couldn’t even tell him if it was an Impala. The kiosk selling engraved pens and wristwatches had potential, but the salesperson was impatient and rude and Castiel drifted away empty handed.

Kevin gave up eventually, settling down in the food court and buying them both a salted pretzel. “You know, I was just kidding about the present, man. I don’t think Dean cares either way, and he’ll probably love whatever you get him.”

“ I know,” Cas said, picking the salt off his pretzel so that he could melt it on his tongue, “But I think that’s why I want to do this. To… surprise him.” He felt a hot blush creep up the back of his neck.

Kevin smiled, a quiet laugh shaking his shoulders. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I have no idea what to get Ambriel… I mean—what does she even— I don’t even know if--“

“If she likes things at all?” Cas offered.

“Exactly!” Kevin took a bite out of his pretzel, chewing thoughtfully. “I feel weird getting her anything too… gender specific, because I know it’s just a body to her.”

Cas knew Ambriel and Kevin’s relationship was anything but simple, even if their courtship had been different from his and Dean’s. The angel was still unstable in her new body, still getting used to the turbulence of emotion and bodily hazards mixing with her heavenly grace and essence. Then there was the fact that Kevin needed to remain safe at the bunker with the tablet in his hands while Ambriel’s duties mandated that she travelled to act as messenger for the angels who had lost their ability to teleport, reporting regularly to Hadarniel. The more angels she found, angels that possessed dogs and birds because humans were turning them down, the more she stayed away. When Castiel and Dean returned to the bunker to regroup, Cas always saw a flash of disappointment in Kevin’s eyes, hoping that the fallen angel had returned with them.

Kevin slurped down the rest of his soda, picking up the remnants of their pizza and throwing them in the trash. “Come on, mall closes in an hour and we still haven’t checked the Banana Republic.”

_ Hello Dean, _

_ Went to a “mall” for the first time today. I never knew that humans took the story of St. Nicholas so seriously. I suppose it was nice to see children so happy. Believing in something does have its merits. _

_ The stores were strange, to say the least. Different from the thrift shop in Lebanon. People were loud and stared at my cast as if it annoyed them just to see it, but some people were friendly and wished me Happy Holidays. The store workers were exceedingly polite but I could tell most of them would rather be elsewhere… _

_ I’m sorry to hear that your sleep schedule is off. I assure you sleeping with a rock-hard tube of plaster is no dream either, but it would be better with you here. I wish I hadn’t broken my leg. I realize that it was my fault, a stupid decision really, and I put both our lives in danger because of my pride. I should be out there with you, but I hope you’re enjoying the time with your brother. I’m glad you’ll be home for Christmas. _

_ -Castiel _

_ P.S. When did bananas become sentient enough to form their own government, let alone a republic? _

 

 

* * *

The mall, in Dean’s opinion, was not a fun place to go.  It was messy, cold, and everything was covered in dirty slush and soggy receipts.  And that was just the parking lot.  Unfortunately this particular shopping center was the only opportunity they were gonna have between now and their next hunt, and Dean couldn’t get Cas’ Christmas gift at the gas station in Lebanon.

“ I dunno, man,” Dean muttered, thumbing sullenly through a rack of cargo pants, “Cas is… _ classier _ than this stuff.  I feel like we should at least be at, like, Macy’s or something.”

“Yeah, classy,” Sam scoffed, “Like that time when you two had a race to see who could eat an entire pound of beef jerky the fastest.  What was Cas’ time again?  Like four and half minutes?”

“ Shaddup,” Dean grumbled, shoving Sam into a rack of t-shirts airbrushed with surfboards.  The Old Navy “atmosphere” was already starting to make him itchy.  All the glittery, pretend utility and cement flooring was giving both a headache and sore feet.  Sam, apparently one of those  _ practical _ gift givers, was pointing him towards everything from puffy winter coats to technology gloves, only to be firmly rejected at every turn.

“ Dude, no.  I am not giving Cas  _ socks _ for Christmas.”

“Why not?  We all need them.”

“Socks are literally the worst Christmas gift ever.”

“ You’ve clearly never been to college.  Socks are a  _ treasure.” _

“ You’re… a ‘treasure’,” Dean mumbled before grabbing a family pack of black socks.  His feet did get cold in the bunker, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna try and slip socks under the tree and call it a Christmas gift.  Clothes in general didn’t really seem like the right direction.  Cas liked wearing Dean’s clothes.  Dean  _ really _ liked Cas wearing Dean’s clothes.  If it ain’t broke don’t fix it, he figured.  Sam ignored him, plucking a few plaid shirts off a rack, medium for Kevin and large for Cas.  At least one Winchester had their list checked off.

“Alright if you’re done I’m gonna check out,” Sam declared, heading for the short line at the front of the store.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean called after him, eye caught on an end shelf of v-neck sweaters.

As a unit, he, Sam, and Cas lately had been trying to expand their suit wardrobe a little.  People believed a Fed in any suit off the rack, but to pull off insurance agents, reporters, scientists, the little extra touches had gone a long way.  The blue wool was soft under Dean’s fingers; the color just a hair darker than Cas’ eyes.   A medium on Cas could be nice, not baggy like Dean’s sweaters usually were, nice and fitted under his black blazer that that silvery tie… Dean rifled through the pile to hold up the proper size before scurrying to catch up with his brother.

“That’s not bad,” Sam nodded as Dean plunked the sweater down on the counter beside his brother’s myriad of purchases.

“It’s a start,” Dean admitted with a shrug.

 

_ Hey Cas, _

_ Me and Sam hit up the mall today too.  Needed some supplies that don’t matter and weren’t about you in any way...  Anyways, it was really crowded and everything was covered in glitter.  Not my idea of a good time, but we did get some pretty good Chinese from the food court, though Sam accidentally ate some pecan chicken and now he’s all throat scratchy.  I’d be worried but I’m just glad he’s allergic to something like a normal person for once.  They’ve got a movie theatre in there and we almost saw the Hobbit but I knew if you didn’t kill us for seeing it without you then Charlie definitely would have.  _

_ We’re finally on our way to Springfield to take care of this ghost.  Sam’s all hopped up on Benadryl so I’m driving after I finish this.  Say…you’re not allergic to anything are you?  Like, any fabrics or anything?  I remember Bobby used to break out in a rash anytime he wore polyester, me and Sam used to sneak scraps of it into his shirt sleeves whenever he got too ornery.  Just, uh, wondering if you’ve ever noticed anything like that.  _

_ Welp, if all goes well we should be home in a few days.  I was thinking if the oven’s in okay shape we could try and cook a turkey.  I’m sure between me, a former angel, a Stanford alum, and Mr. Advanced Placement we could figure it out.  _

_ Talk to you soon, _

_ Dean _

  
  
  


 


	3. He'll say, "Are you married?"

They left the mall empty handed, and a jaunt around the sparse shopping in Lebanon proved unsuccessful the next day. They were just making their way home, Castiel’s leg stiff in the front seat and hand clutching the door handle as Kevin proved to be a questionable winter driver. It had been snowing earlier, but quickly turned into a light rain that was spreading mud and slush everywhere instead of holiday cheer.

Static burst from the radio, and he looked away from the window instead to fiddle with the tuner. He settled on a Christmas station, the song familiar and upbeat.

“It’s the holiday season…” he sang under his breath, testing out how his voice blended with Frank Sinatra’s.

“Oh no,” Kevin groaned.

“What?”

“You’re starting to memorize the Christmas songs,” he explained, “There’s only about a dozen and pretty soon they’ll all be in your head. Forever.”

“Forever,” Cas echoed. Despite the ominous tone in Kevin’s voice, he didn’t actually think that memorizing the tunes would be a bad thing. After all, they were cheerful and made him smile and—

Castiel gasped as Kevin took a sharp right into the hardware store parking lot. The brakes squealed and the wheels slipped under the slush.

“What are we doing here?” Cas gasped as Kevin fishtailed into a parking space. They were only a few miles away from the bunker.

“Just got an idea.” Kevin’s grin was wolfish and his eyes glinted in the late-afternoon light, and Cas did not trust him at all.

With good reason, as it turned out. Kevin came alive inside the store, bounding up and down each aisle with a vigor unmatched by any creature Castiel had ever encountered. Castiel struggled to push the cart along with one crutch for balance as it was filled with foreign items like “icicle lights,” and “blow-up snow globes,” and a poinsettia large enough that it had to be placed on hold at the cash register while they continued shopping.

They were in the chilly outdoor center contemplating the wreath selection when Castiel spoke up. “Kevin?”

“Yeah Cas?”

“I’m not against decorating the bunker, but—“

“But you’re wondering why I’m being such a freak about it?”

Cas froze, his crutch creaking in the cold. “I didn’t mean—“

Kevin smiled. “I’m just kidding, I’m not mad or anything. This stuff just used to be super important to my mom. We never had much extended family, my grandmother died when I was a baby and we didn’t get along with my grandfather so it was always just us. I always decorated with her, even when I was in high school and studying five hours a night. She always wanted to have the best lights. And I just liked spending the time with her,” he finished quietly.

Cas nodded. He thought about the hours he spend underneath the impala with Dean, handing him tools or just keeping him company while he worked on something he loved. He always felt like it was a privilege to be in his company at these moments.

He ran his fingers over one of the wreaths, the pine smell heady and rich in his nose. “Family…” he muttered.

“What was that?”

Cas smiled. He would tell him his idea later. “Nothing. But I think this one is perfect .”

 

_ Hello Dean, _

_ Christmas music is a funny thing. Kevin said that the song selection is limited and that radio stations only repeat the same tunes over and over again. But I find the different  _ versions _ to be fascinating. Charlotte Church’s rendition of “What Child is this?” is so traditional, whereas Lindsey Stirling’s take on it leaves me breathless. _

_ I think the turkey is an excellent idea. I will— _

_ I apologize. Kevin is keeping me occupied. For now I’ll say goodbye. Please be safe, and I’ll see you soon. _

 

_ -Castiel _

 

_ P.S. I don’t believe I’m allergic to anything, but I have rubbed several garment samples against my skin to be sure. I’ll keep you posted. _

 

 

* * *

 

“What about an ipod?” Sam offered with a grunt as he dumped another shovelful of dirt to the side of the grave they were currently digging up, “You’re always trying to teach him about music.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean agreed, keeping watch with a salt-loaded sawed off, “Teaching him about  _ good _  music, the first rule of which is that it doesn’t come out of one of the Robot Overlord’s little tin cans.”

“Yeah and next you can teach him about the evils of Communism and how to keep those young whippersnappers off his lawn,” Sam smirked,  _ accidentally _  catching Dean’s boots with the next load of dirt. 

“Can it, hippie,” Dean shot back, “Just because-duck!”

Sam dropped into the waist-high hole in the ground just as Dean leveled his gun at the angry spirit that had materialized on the other side of the grave.  The sharp retort of his weapon peppered the ghost with salt grape-shot, blasting it back to the ether for another few minutes.

“All clear,” Dean called out, “You almost done down there?  Old man Jenkins is getting a little close for comfort.”

“Well it would go a little faster if  _ somebody _  wasn’t sitting on their ass,” Sam grumbled, digging in earnest.

“Hey, I’m helping,” Dean protested, indignantly brandishing his shot gun, “If it weren’t for me the old man would have put you through the thresher by now.  ‘Sides, you’re supposed to be helping me think of gifts for Cas.”  Sam rolled his eyes but kept digging, chewing his bottom lip as he thought of ideas.

“What about a book?”

“The dude knows  _ everything _ .”

“Cologne?”

Another boom as Dean took out the farmer’s ghost hovering behind his gravestone.

“Nah, Cas smells good the way he is.  No way I’m covering up that musk.”

“That’s all I got, man,” Sam huffed, face flushed with exertion, “I mean, what do people normally buy for their boyfriends?”  At the sound of the b-word, Dean’s felt a flash of alarm.

“Dude, what am I, sixteen?” Dean growled, “Cas is not my  _ boyfriend.” _

“I’m pretty sure that’s the term,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, for high schoolers,” Dean retorted, “Cas isn’t wearing my letterman and picking out prom dresses.  We’re badasses.”  Dean’s firmness was punctuated by a thunk as Sam finally hit the plain wooden coffin that held the remains of their spook.

“You seem to be making a big deal out of a word,” Sam noted as he broke through the rotting boards to the skeleton below before taking Dean’s hand up out of the grave, “Considering how you just gushed over how much you like Cas’  _ musk _ .”

“I’m not saying we’re not committed,” Dean argued, tossing Sam the lighter fluid and fumbling for his lighter, “I’m just saying ‘boyfriend’ seems a little flippant for a hunter and a former angel of the Lord. And you just know if we ever ran into Abaddon or somebody again we’d never hear the end of it.”

Sam shrugged his agreement as he splashed the grave’s contents thoroughly.

“What about ‘partner’?” he offered. Dean mused over it as he stared momentarily into the steady flame of his zippo. Partner. Not a bad ring. Maybe a little too picket fence for Dean’s taste, but not bad. Partners could be hunters _and_ buy each other Christmas presents.

“Better,” Dean agreed at last as he dropped the lighter onto the soaked bones and the grave filled with copper flames.

 

~~_ Howdy partner,  _ ~~ _  Hiya Cas, _

_ Christmas tunes can be a little sappy, but don’t let the cynics get you down.  James Taylor has a good “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and no human makes it through their thirties without crying along drunkenly to the Dan Fogelberg Christmas song (Sam says it’s called “Same Auld Lang Syne”) at least once, trust me.  Just get yourself a whiskey and let the melancholy in for an hour or two.  Heads up: if anybody starts singing about “Christmas shoes”, ABORT MISSION.  I repeat, NO CHRISTMAS SHOES.  That is too much sad for anyone to handle.  _

_ Me and Sam just ganked Old Man Jenkins, the charming spook that was impaling people with farming equipment.  We’re turning west and heading for  _ _a poltergeist case near Lebanon, but as soon as that’s done we’ll be home. See you soon._

 

_-_ _ Dean _

 


	4. You can count on me

“Sir, could you be more specific?”

Cas sighed, the young intern on the other line was friendly, but uninterested. “The Winchester family. I’m looking for any record of them in your newspaper. It would be around 1980 to 1983. Any mention of them at all.”

A computer mouse clicked and gum snapped. “Winchester…” the intern drawled out, his accent more Southern than Midwestern. “Got an announcement of a John Winchester getting his mechanic’s license… Henry Winchester goes missing… But that was back in the fifties so not what you’re looking for, right?”

Castiel rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture Sam said he picked up from Dean. “No. Is there  _ anything  _ else? A photograph?”

The intern remained indifferent. “Sorry sir. Nothing. Have a good holiday!”

The line went dead with a click. Cas set the phone down on the kitchen counter, apprehension already filling his gut. The plan had seemed foolproof in his mind, but this was a dead end. He couldn’t help but feel a familiar sense of failure, even if a failed attempt at gift-giving was nothing compared to watching the entire heavenly host fall to Earth.

He grabbed some leftover pizza and the carton of eggnog from the fridge to eat cold in front of the TV. Lights blinked at him from every wall, reflecting off of tinsel garlands and the rest of Kevin’s excellent decorations. The prophet had not been swayed by the bunker’s lack of windows, instead he draped the walkways with green garland and hung paper snowflakes from the high ceilings from a teetering ladder. The stress had been worth it when Kevin had looked upon his creation with a genuine smile.

“We did good, Cas,” Kevin had said, clapping the former angel on the shoulder.

Kevin had insisted on chopping down a real tree, and luckily the forest near the bunker supplied a good specimen. It sat, heavy with ornaments from the hardware store, in the library next to the long table where they planned out hunts. Somehow, it made the lists of dead angels and newspaper clippings of strange happenings seem less foreboding.

He settled there instead of in front of the TV, taking bites of the cold pizza and chasing it down with spiked eggnog straight from the carton. Dean had said to wait for him. Another disappointment.

He might have dozed off in the chair once or twice, the eggnog making his mind fuzzy and his limbs too warm.

“Oh don’t tell me you’re having a pity party. How very Winchester of you.”

Cas emerged slowly from his stupor and didn’t bother jumping; Crowley had taken to trying to frighten him even though he was completely desensitized to the former demon’s presence. Instead he kicked out the chair next to him, a silent invitation.

Crowley shrugged and sat down, taking the carton from Castiel’s hands. He eyed the decorations with a steely eye as he took a gulp. “Man can’t even take a nap without waking up to a funhouse like this.”

“It’s Christmas,” Castiel stated simply.

“Well don’t sound so happy about it. What, sad your sugar daddy couldn’t make it back in time?”

“It’s the twenty-third. Dean will be back in time.” Most of the time he was able to tolerate the Former King of Hell, even pity him a little; they were both creatures caught in between humanity and the supernatural, never quite fitting in. Tonight, however, he already felt a light buzzing in the back of his head and didn’t have the patience.

Crowley held up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to be the voice of reason. Never did see what the fuss was about. This whole… Christmas season.”

“You wouldn’t, being an abomination.”

“Whoa there! I thought we were past this type of name-calling?” Behind the sarcasm, a genuine glint of hurt flickered in Crowley’s eyes.

Castiel felt an annoying glint of pity. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley kept eye-contact with him. “It’s forgiven.” He took another swig of eggnog. “And not that I care, but what crawled up your ass tonight?”

Cas snatched the carton back, opting to pour himself a proper glass. “I wanted to make Christmas… special. For Dean.” Castiel could hear the immaturity in the words, the stupidity in their simplicity, and waited for Crowley to start cackling.

“You poor saps,” was all he said. Cas looked up. “So emotionally stunted you don’t even know how Christmas really goes.” Crowley rolled his eyes at Cas’s confused expression. “You get drunk, open some crappy gifts, get in a fight that lands someone in the ER—“

“That doesn’t sound pleasant at all.”

“Because it's not!” Crowley shouted. “But, you’re together. You’re alive. Which is a big accomplishment for you three. Stop worrying about making up for his shitty childhood.”

Castiel let the words wash over him. _Stop Worrying._ When would he stop worrying about Dean? Never.

“You’re wrong,” he said to his glass more than to Crowley. “I’m here for Dean now. I’ll never stop trying to make him happy.”

Cas looked up and Crowley sat back, silent. He held his gaze, malice and misunderstandings older than time itself pouring back at him.

Just then, his phone vibrated, making them both jump. An unidentified number. He pressed the talk button with murderous intent.

“Hello?”

“Hello!” said a cheery woman’s voice. “Am I speaking to someone named… Cas?”

“Yes,” he answered, Crowley frowning at him questioningly.

“My name is Susan Tawney, I’m the editor of the Lawrence Journal. You called about the Winchester family? Inquiring about any mention of them in our paper?”

“I did.”

Castiel could hear her smile over line. “We’ve all been in quite a tizzy over it all. As soon as you hung up with my intern earlier, he had a sudden burst of ingenuity and, if you don’t mind my frankness, more enthusiasm for investigative journalism than I’ve ever seen out of him.”

She fell silent, as if waiting for Castiel to say something. She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, and so after hours of searching, out of the blue we get a call from a local, one Missouri Mosley.”

Missouri Mosley. The name flicked at his memory. Not something he remembered, but something Dean had said once in passing.  _ We were on a hunt in our hometown—you remember Missouri, Sammy? Gave us a run for our money—Kevin did you eat the last burrito? _

Burrito stress aside, Castiel listened intently as Susan continued. “It was like she knew! She called up saying she had a box of old newspaper clippings that she was just dying to get rid of, old things from about thirty years ago. I said ‘sure, bring ‘em on down!’ and she did, quick as a flash she was at our door. And right on top was just what you were looking for!”

The next few minutes were a blur for Castiel. He took down addresses and gave her their P.O. box number and then he hung up and his hands were shaking with excitement. Crowley scoffed and sauntered back towards his bedroom, muttering about how no one ever listened to him.

 

 

* * *

 

“Two number ones and an eggnog shake. To go.”

Dean waited at the edge of the crowded counter in the chaos of a crowded McDonald’s full of happy families and kids excited for Christmas. It made his ears itch, to be honest. They usually stayed away from the big chains for exactly this reason, but it was right across the street from the gas station where Sam was filling up the Impala so Dean went. They still had three hours to Lebanon and Dean’s stomach had been growling for the last fifty miles.

Three hours to Lebanon. Plenty of time for some Christmas Eve nookie. Seeing all the couples, young and old, eating their shitty burgers, still in love despite the wailing of their heathen children made Dean miss Cas something fierce. At this point all Dean wanted for Christmas was to be home with Cas, and it looked like he was gonna get his wish.

Of course they could have been home a day earlier, and didn’t that just burn Dean’s biscuits.

They’d stopped at the edge of Iowa on signs of a poltergeist case. A lot of stories about strange noises in an old Victorian house, with one recent and unexplained death. Twelve hours of research later they had a fat load of nothing. No history of violent deaths on the property, no EMF, and it turned out the “vic” had been legally blind, which explained his mysterious tumble down the stairs. The old bugger was too proud to wear his glasses and he tripped. Sad, but not a problem for hunters to deal with. Just a lot of superstition and carelessness.

They’d been so busy looking for the “spook” that Dean hadn’t had time to find anything else to give Cas for Christmas. He had a sweater, which was pretty much the most cliched “first Christmas as a couple” gift ever. Dean scuffed his boots on the tile floor and waited for his number to be called. He didn’t want to give Cas a sweater to make him blend in better as a hunter. Dean just wanted Cas to have something that was his. Something he could pick from the closet and wear out of the bunker on his own. Or with Dean. Lately it seemed like the only time Dean and Cas went anywhere together was for a hunt. That was something Dean could improve on.

Dean was so immersed making mental lists of nice date locations in Kansas City that he didn’t hear the woman approaching behind him until she was close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Well would you look at that. Just the man I’ve been looking for.”

“Sorry, lady,” Dean replied without looking, “I’m spoken for.” He should have recognized the smell of sulfur underneath the usual restaurant grease.

“Cute,” the woman continued, and Dean straightened as a blade pressed through the thin material of his coat, prodding dangerously near his kidneys, “but that wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

“What the f-”

“Shh,” the woman urged, “I don’t think you want a scene.”

A slim hand entered Dean’s vision, guiding his gaze up to a wide angle security mirror installed above the counter. The matronly woman holding Dean hostage could have been his aunt, or a former school teacher. Her eyes flashed black, in stark contrast to her bright red and green christmas sweater. In the reflection Dean saw another man wave at him from the back of the room. Another flash of black eyes to go with another deceivingly cheerful christmas sweater.

“We’ve already got your brother,” the demon promised, her voice still an innocent whisper in the crowded restaurant, “We just needed the complete set before we called in the bounty Abaddon has out for you.”

Shit.

“We’re gonna take a walk.” The knife pressed a little sharper through his jacket. “And if you kick up a fuss, my associate and I are gonna kill all these cute little families while you and your brother watch. And won’t _that_ make a happy Christmas memory for all of us.”

Dean ground his teeth, but kept his snarky comeback to himself. A public snatch. For once the black eyed sons of bitches had played it smart. Wordlessly he let the demon guide him outside where Sam was already waiting, flanked by two more goons. Dean exchanged a frustrated glance with his brother.

This wasn’t exactly the Christmas Eve he’d been looking forward to.

 

* * *

 

Ambriel flew to take the edge off.

It wasn’t as if she had extra energy to use; her grace faded with every passing moment and flying wasn’t energy efficient. She couldn’t justify it to herself, and yet here she was, wind ruffling in her wings as she sailed leisurely above the clouds. She occasionally saw lights twinkling below her, some the standard streetlamps, others more festive in nature.

Kevin had never mentioned Christmas to her, or indicated that he celebrated any holiday. Then again, Kevin operated on a highly antiquated system of masculinity where nostalgia could be interpreted as feminine-- but he _had_ appeared extra-melancholy at her departure a few weeks prior.

Securing permanent vessels for fallen angels _had_ to remain a priority, however, above all earthly attachments. Hadarniel preferred to exist in virtual solitude between their missions, not craving company-- never drifting toward Kansas as if it were something other than a stretch of nondescript land in North America...

The stench of concentrated demon interrupted her serene flight somewhere above the midwestern United States, along with the light of a familiar pair of souls. She furrowed her brow in confusion, dipping into a sharp dive.

She landed outside of a mill, nondescript in every way accepting that it was old. The windows were covered in thick slabs of wood plastered with ‘No Trespassing’ signs. Faint mumbling sounded from inside, the words indecipherable but the voices familiar. Winchesters.

They sounded haughty and over-confident as always, but she could feel the tension of the situation. The entire perimeter reeked of demons, higher-ups it seemed like. Abaddon’s henchmen, if not the Knight herself.

Discerning that the voices were coming from an inner chamber, she pushed open the door, careful to silence any squeaking hinges. The entryway would be pitch dark to the mortal eye, and even she squinted to see more than nondescript shapes. She inched toward the door to the next room, stepping carefully around piles of paper and old machinery. A presence waited behind the next door, the humming of its weapon apparent. An Angel blade, and her own blade fell into her hand at the suggestion.

Silencing the demon behind the door was child’s play, only a quick flick of her wrist caused the door to silently swing open, giving her a perfect window to slip her blade between the demon’s ribs. She guided the body to the floor, wanting to preserve her soundless entrance.

The voices were clearer now.

“Sammy, you think a couple‘a goons like this can hold us? And on Christmas Eve too?”

“Dean they are holding us.”

“Don’t you know how to bluff--oof.”

The sound of a fist hitting a face punctuated the air, swiftly followed by Dean Winchester’s laughter.

“Fucking demons, is that all you can do? You can’t do anything to us until your boss gets here, and I bet that just grinds your gears doesn’t it?”

A click. The sound of a knife being unsheathed, followed by the gritty voice of a demon.

“I’m gonna make a mess of your pretty face, Winchester.”

Ambriel could only grit her teeth as the strained sound of Dean’s pain filtered underneath the crack in the door. She looked down at her hands, blotchy from dehydration and other human ailments-- but grace still thrummed inside of her, searing hot and righteous as God himself.

Kicking down the door disoriented the demon, and in that moment she saw Sam Winchester, almost completely unharmed, before her eyes flicked to Dean, blood streaming down his face as an impish, open-mouthed smile formed at the sight of her. He looked back at the demon.

“You better brace yourself, boss.”

Ambriel could only barely hear herself yell “Close your eyes!!” before lighting up the room, her palm radiating scorching heat. Screams filled the cavernous space, music to her ears before she fell down limp, just barely making out the outline of two men rushing toward her before everything faded to black.

 

* * *

 

First, Castiel heard a crash; then a yell followed by a painful groan. He looked up from the Newspaper that was  _ definitely _ holding his attention, Kevin’s lights twinkling above him, but there was only silence.

Then another crash, and the sound of the heavy door latch being lifted open. Cas grabbed his blade and hobbled to the foot of the staircase with it modestly raised, even as hope for Dean and Sam’s return rose in his chest.

“Cas! Kevin!”

Tension drained out of Castiel’s muscles at Dean’s shouting and the familiar sound of his stride in the hallway. Then his face at the top of the stairs—

With a bloody cut on his face. More familiar sights.

Behind him came a hobbling Sam and…

“Hey, brother.” Ambriel stepped out from behind Sam’s shadow, brushing back her sweaty blonde hair from her eyes. Despite looking run ragged, she and Sam were otherwise unscathed.

Dean hurried down the stairs to Cas, despite his injuries, and immediately clasped his hand over the other man’s shoulder upon meeting him, the gesture becoming more intimate as his hand moved to cup at Castiel’s neck.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he said softly, “I told you I’d be home for Christmas.”

“I never doubted you, if you’re interested to know,” Castiel retorted. All the same, he leaned into the touch, clutching at Dean’s elbow for balance.

“How’s the leg?” he asked, steadying Castiel.

“Broken.”

Dean laughed as Sam and Ambriel made their way down the stairs, both eyeing the newly decorated bunker with wide eyes. Sam was smiling, and even Ambriel looked curious.

“Wow,” Sam said, “You guys really went all out.”

“It was Kevin really, I mostly supervised.”

“Where is that kid? Kevin!” Dean shouted just as the Prophet emerged from the kitchen wearing his headphones and bobbing his head to some unheard music.

He looked up once he felt the eyes on him, a smile lighting up his whole face. Castiel couldn’t help but glance at Ambriel, who was wearing her warmest expression reserved just for Kevin.

“You’re back,” he said simply, pulling the headphones off to rest against his neck.

Kevin expressed that sentiment often. Usually Ambiel followed it with a cool “For the time being” or “Yes, until my business is done” and Kevin’s face would fall again.

This time, Ambriel only returned his smile. “I’ve heard that it’s traditional to be home for the holidays.”

 

 


	5. I'll be Home for Christmas

Christmas aside, Dean was still bleeding from the forehead and Ambriel was still recovering power lost from teleporting, making healing his minor scrape out of the question.

This gave Castiel the opportunity to drag Dean (he was sure Dean allowed this as it’s not hard to overpower someone balanced on one crutch) to the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub to be properly taken care of.

“It’s just a scrape, Cas,” Dean protested, “Nothing a little soap and water can’t take of.”

Castiel rummaged through the cabinets“There’s blood covering half of your face, Dean.”

“Pshhh, you know how head wounds are.”

Castiel turned around with a scowl to find Dean smiling; a rare smile that included the visibility of all his teeth. His retort faded before it could pass his lips, and instead he set to work cleaning up the dried blood from Dean’s cheek with a damp towel. Dean winced at the pressure, but his eyes tried to meet Castiel’s.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

Castiel stood back as the words sank in, knowing that they were unnecessary, really. Castiel was a hunter now, and even before he had known the sacrifices that came with this life. Even before falling into Dean’s arms he had fallen from heaven, and he knew that the greater cause was bigger than the pair of them.

“I understand that this is what we do, Dean—”

“Well I wish it wasn’t— shit.” Dean hung his head, sighing before looking up at Castiel again.

“I know that this is what we do. And that you’re on board. You have no idea how much that means to me. But I. When we’re together— I—“

Castiel felt the ghost of a smile reach his lips. Dean Winchester struggled to find the words, as if what he wanted to say was far too normal for the two of them.

“I missed you too, Dean.” Castiel stooped down on one to fasten the bandage to Dean’s face. “Us working together means a lot to me.”

Cas worked in silence for a moment, cleaning the rest of the blood and carefully fitting the bandage over the small incision. Dean’s breath puffed against his neck, his hand ghosting over his upper arm.

“What happened anyway?” Castiel asked, breaking the silence, “I thought it was just a poltergeist.”

Dean laughed. “The thing I told you about was just a poltergeist. Got this,” he pointed at his forehead, “From some demons. Abaddon’s henchman. Ambriel happened to be around, got us out of there somehow.”

“Somehow?”

Dean sighed as Castiel gather up his materials and turned around to wash his hands. “Don’t know what’s coming, man, but the angels aren’t gonna be angels for long… Am could barely teleport us out of the hotzone after frying almost everyone there. And she was beat in the car ride back here. She actually _slept_.”

Castiel nodded, drying his hands and blinking to hide his surprise. Always a dark cloud on the horizon, waiting.

It would have to wait for another day.

“Should we go and have Christmas?”

Dean smilled before getting up, reaching into his jacket to pull out his journal from the inner pocket. He placed it next to Castiel's in its well-worn spot.

“You bet.”

 

* * *

 

While the fridge was bare of any baked hams or Christmas geese, the freezer yielded a somewhat plentiful bounty.

“People eat lasagna on Christmas, right?” Dean asked, hefting the family size Stouffer’s box.

“I have no idea,” Cas admitted. Sam gave an equally ignorant shrug and Kevin was too busy looking up what cookie recipes they had the ingredients for to chime in.

“Okay then,” Dean decided, setting the oven to preheat, “Lasagna it is.”

Dinner was almost done when Ambriel reappeared, looking a little fresher than when they arrived. She paused in the doorway, casting a pointed glance at someone behind her before sauntering in and picking a seat next to Kevin. There was a beat of quiet before Crowley trailed in behind her with a put-upon sigh.

“He was sulking in the dungeon,” Ambriel informed the room as Crowley begrudgingly took a chair at the end of the table, “But I felt it more appropriate that we all gather. Christmas is...family time.” She squinted uncertainly at the second half of her sentence, reminding Dean so strongly of Cas that he had to laugh at the family resemblance. Both angel and former angel offered him an equally dry glare.

“I’m glad you could join us,” Castiel said, directing his words towards Crowley, “I understand no human Christmas celebration is complete without the presence of a belligerent grandfather figure.”

“You’re _hilarious_ ,” Crowley deadpanned, “Now where’s the liquor?”

“Pour enough for everybody,” Dean instructed, while he mixed sugar cookie dough in a ceramic bowl from under the sink. Kevin read him the recipe off his tablet and Dean hoped fervently that he wasn’t making cookies in a bowl used for blood magic, or something equally unappetizing.

They didn’t have cookie cutters, but if hunters have anything, it’s plenty of sharp knives. After cleaning one thoroughly, Dean was designated cookie slicer. Cas manned the oven while Sam and Kevin served up heaping plates of lasagna and Dean carefully cut out row after row of sugar cookie trees, stars, and candy canes. Ambriel utilized a little angel strength in order to mix fridge-cold butter and sugar into a fluffy frosting. A tiny flick of grace turned bowls of frosting red and green for decorating. Crowley was quiet, but did in fact keep everyone’s glasses full.

They ate Christmas dinner around the kitchen table, holding their plates in their laps while the cookies cooled on long rows of parchment paper. In between bites of pasta Dean snuck a few of the less photogenic cookies, distracting a stern Cas with sugary kisses. Once the baking was done butter knives were distributed, even, reluctantly, to Crowley, and the decorating commenced, until several dinner plates were stacked high with frosted holiday treats.

“Okay,” Sam announced, unearthing a large plastic Old Navy bag, “Before we put ourselves into sugar comas it’s time for presents.”

“Everybody to the tree!” Kevin declared, dragging a bemused Ambriel out of the study.

“That’s my cue to retire,” Crowley announced, taking his glass and a bottle of whiskey, “God bless us everyone, and all that.”

“Oh,” Sam said, “Hang on then…”

After a minute of rifling, Sam unearthed Crowley’s gift. Dean hadn’t seen Sam pick it up, so he must have grabbed it from one of the front tables while Dean had been picking out Cas’ sweater. It was a novelty Christmas sweater, bright red with a Fairisle print and “BAH HUMBUG” stitched right across the chest.

Crowley took the garment, for once without a cynical quip.

“Um,” he said at last, “Thanks.” And promptly vanished down the hall, sweater and liquor in hand.

“Nice job, Sammy,” Dean quipped after a beat, clapping his brother on the shoulder, “Let’s go hand out flannel.”

They brought the cookies to the library, where Kevin and Ambriel shoved the table out of the way, gathering chairs around the sparkling Christmas tree. Sam played Santa, brandishing his large bag of practical gifts.

“These are from me,” Sam began.

“And me,” Dean chimed in, laughing at his brother’s exasperated expression.

“From me and Dean,” he amended, “They’re not wrapped, or exciting, but, you know, merry Christmas, everybody. Let’s see...size medium is for Kevin…”

Sam handed out shirts in classic Winchester plaid, two each for Kevin and Cas, along with new socks and undershirts for everyone, and a fleece pullover for Dean in a rich chocolate brown.

“You always wear your canvas jackets, but they’re not that warm,” Sam said as Dean tried on the admittedly comfy outerwear, “Now you can layer and you won’t freeze your ass off in the name of style next time we end up in Wisconsin or something.”

“Nice,” Dean conceded, while Cas showed his appreciation of how the warm material hugged Dean’s biceps.

Sam had a fleece for Ambriel as well, which accidentally coordinated with Castiel’s gift for his sister, a slim but high quality pair of winter gloves in heather gray, along with a peppermint scented hand lotion set.

“Dry, cold hands have been my least favorite part of owning my own vessel,” Castiel ventured, nervous, “I thought with all your travels-”

“This is a thoughtful gift, Castiel,” Ambriel declared, sniffing the hand cream with a pleased smile, “It’s very useful. Thank you, brother. And both of you, Sam and Dean.”

“That just leaves one for Sam,” Kevin laughed, wearing both his new shirts one over the other. He grabs a large, soft cornered gift from under the tree and tosses it across the study to Sam. “Here’s your gift from Dean.”

“When did you manage this?” Sam asked, shaking the rectangular package before tearing at the newspaper wrapping.

“Kevin was my sleeper agent,” Dean admitted, mussing Kevin’s shaggy hair before dropping onto the carpet next to Cas, “Don’t get too excited though. It’s boring and practical.”

“Dude. I _live_ for practical.”

A short text message to Kevin had secured Dean’s gift for Sam. He’d spotted it on their way out of the mall in Illinois, but with the close quarters of the Impala no amount of double bagging would have kept it safe from Dean’s nosy brother. Luckily a Target was a Target, and Kevin was able to run back to the mall outside Lebanon and grab the Extra Long flannel comforter for Sam’s pitifully under-decorated room in the bunker.

“Holy crap, Dean,” Sam exclaimed with a grin, tugging the blanket out of the packaging to swathe himself in bright red plaid. Dean was relieved to see the flannel coverlet reached from Sam’s shoulders all the way to the floor with length to spare.

“Yeah, I guess it’s for those extra long dorm beds,” Dean shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, “It gets drafty in here, I figured you could use something that wouldn’t leave your toes cold.”

“It’s awesome.” Wearing his new comforter like a cape, Sam dragged Dean into a warm, snuggly hug. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

Kevin pulled Ambriel away from the group after some time, Sam distracted with his new comforter and Dean busy teasing him about the size of his limbs. Kevin held a small box in his hands, not looking Ambriel in the eye until he pulled out something thin and circular from it, big enough to sit atop someone’s head. He pressed a button and then it was a shining, twinkling halo of Christmas tree lights.

Ambriel’s eyes lit up, and Kevin smiled as he placed it on her head, the yellow lights shining against her thick blonde hair. She leaned in to press a quick kiss to his cheek, drawing back to touch her new halo with a small smile.

“Cas?”

Cas jumped a bit; he hadn’t seen Dean watching him, eyes timid.

“Meet me in my room?”

Cas felt nerves erupt in his stomach but he nodded, heading down the hallway before looking back to see Dean rummage for something in his duffel bag.

Cas hadn’t made the bed this morning, and the rest of the room was more untidy than Dean liked it, but for some reason he knew that lecture would have to come later. Dean’s eyes had looked nervous back in the living room, and something told Castiel that it was time to retrieve his present for Dean out of the night table.

Just as he expected, Dean entered the room holding a square box wrapped in newspaper and twine just as he found Dean’s present wrapped in Kevin’s shining gold paper. He laughed, defusing the tension that had been building.

“Jeez man, you’d think we were about to perform brain surgery or something.”

Cas smiled. “That would be decidedly less nerve wracking for me.”

Dean shook his head, holding out his gift. “Well, Merry Christmas Cas.”

Cas took it, sitting down on the bed. Dean joined him as he unwrapped the thick paper to reveal a plain white shirt box. Opening it up, he found a sweater nestled in white tissue paper. It was blue and, after running a hand over it, extremely soft.

“I mean,” Dean started, nervously scratching behind his head, “I know it’s just a sweater, but I wanted you to have somethin’ nice that wasn’t mine, or Sam’s, or Jimmy’s. I thought maybe you could wear it on a date? A real one, with me? Maybe Valentine’s Day, once you get your cast off.”

Cas’s heart sped up at the thought-- going somewhere with Dean alone, hand in hand, sharing a kiss in the moonlight…

“Where would we go?” He asked, looking up to see Dean relax with relief, a mischievous smile curling at his mouth.

“Well, I would take you to one of those fancy burger places. The ones that have homemade ketchup and fresh baked bread-- and then maybe a movie. Something with superheroes since those are the only movies worth seeing lately.”

“And then?”

Dean shrugged, pink blush creeping up his neck. “Then I’d take you home, and I think you know what happens next.”

Cas laughed, touching the soft blue sweater again, loving what it represented.

“I just,” Dean mumbled, “I want to spend more time together that’s not solving some kind of supernatural crisis. More normal, um, couple-y stuff. So I guess that’s part of the gift, too.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, holding his partner’s hand tightly.

He remembered Dean’s gift a few moments later, handing it to him with a smile and a nod. He pulled at his fingers as Dean carefully unwrapped the present, calloused hands working at the taped seams instead of tearing at the paper.

“It’s nice paper, why waste it?” Dean said, seeing Cas’s watchful eye. He set it aside, finally eyeing the light picture frame that sat in his hands.

“Cas…” Dean whispered, running his fingers over the glass.

The woman at the Lawrence newspaper had expressed mailed him any clippings that were relevant. Most were still tucked away in the bottom of Castiel and Dean’s dresser; ones that spoke of a fire and a bereaved husband left with two young children, to be shown to Dean at a different time. He had been able to salvage one picture that was unrelated to any Winchester tragedy, and Dean looked at it now like water in the desert.

It was a picture of any young family out and about. A rich Autumn scene lit up the backdrop of Mary Winchester, holding an infant Sam close to her chest. Dean, sandy haired with a gap toothed smile, perched on John’s shoulders, the Winchester patriarch holding onto his son’s feet with one hand and while the other rested on his wife’s shoulders. The caption underneath read:

_Going to the pumpkin farm is a standard Fall tradition in Lawrence, and this young family paints the ideal picture. From left to right: Mary Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, John Winchester, 10/23/1983_

Dean was silent, running his fingers over the glass almost absentmindedly. “I didn’t mean for it upset you, I know you don’t have a picture of your family, and it’s only from a newspaper but I thought—“

Cas’s words are stolen when Dean leaned in to plant a kiss on his open mouth, hard at first-- in the way Dean kisses when he’s trying to tell him something important-- then turning soft when he realized that Cas already knew.

“This,” he said against Cas’s mouth, “This means so much. I couldn’t tell you how much.”

Cas only nodded his happiness before wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck to continue their kiss.

 

* * *

 

Sam only half-rolled his eyes when Cas and Dean emerged, Cas showing off his new sweater to everyone, ready to rejoin the festivities. Somehow, Ambriel had procured a fresh quart of eggnog and Dean and Cas were barely sitting before a generous glass was thrusted into their hands. Bing Crosby crooned about a White Christmas from Kevin’s laptop and someone had started a fire in the old fireplace.

Dean still held the picture frame, and Castiel watched as he showed it to Sam, the younger Winchester taking the frame in his hands with bemusement at first. His face relaxed into an indecipherable emotion when he saw the picture, looking up at Cas.

“I think I remember that day,” Dean said, not adding any other detail.

Dean cleared his throat, easing the picture from Sam’s hands to place it gently on the coffee table, facing them. He leaned back and wound an arm around Cas’s shoulder, gripping tight enough for him to notice. When he spoke, however, his voice was casual.

“So Kev, what made you think you could turn my batcave into a Winter Wonderland?”

They dissolved into laughter and pretend arguments, and Castiel leaned back into Dean’s embrace to listen to the happy voices of his family. He caught Ambriel’s eye after a few moments, noticing the very un-angelic flush in her cheeks and shine in her eyes, reflecting the light of her man-made halo.

She smiled. She knew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is our last chapter! We sincerely hope you enjoyed our little addendum to the Talk to Me Project as much as we enjoyed writing it. Happy Holidays and Good Days to you all!


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